


A Helping Hand

by Tam_Cranver



Category: Nicholas Nickleby - Dickens
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-27
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 08:50:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tam_Cranver/pseuds/Tam_Cranver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smike finds himself in a couple of unpleasant circumstances. Nicholas is happy to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Helping Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Nicholas and Smike are the brainchildren of Charles Dickens. I use them only for entertainment purposes.

It was much to Nicholas's dismay that he did not remember about Smike's back until after they had reached the inn that evening. His own wound, occupying so noticeable and accessible position on his face, had been promptly cleaned at the first tream they encountered, but Smike's own blow to the back had remained forgotten and untended. It occurred to Nicholas as he struggled to compose a letter to his mother that the wound must surely be bothering Smike by now. Well, Nicholas had no real training in the medicinal arts, but their room had a washbasin and Nicholas had clean handkerchiefs; he could offer some comfort anyway.

"Smike!" he said, forcing what cheer he could into his voice, despite the pressing anger he felt at being reminded of Squeers. For once, Smike's perpetual cringing had given way to a sort of tentative hope. Nicholas would not spoil the poor fellow's happiness for the world.

Smike immediately stopped his hesitant bouncing on the inn's narrow cot. "Sir?" Smike asked, looking curiously and vaguely worried at Nicholas, as if he were to be tossed from the bed at any moment.

"How is your back faring?"

"My back?" His eyes were full of their usual dull confusion, and Nicholas wondered sadly if Smike ever had any idea what was happening to him and why.

"From when that brute struck you yesterday. Come to the end of the bed and let me look at it!"

As Smike, skilled in the practice of obeying, hastened to move himself, Nicholas wet a handkerchief in the washbasin. He should have to give Smike one of his spare shirts, of course; there would be no purpose in cleaning the wound only to throw Smike's dirty shirt upon it once more

"Best take off your shirt," Nicholas said with a reassuring smile to his companion, who sat regarding him with large, uncomprehending eyes. "I'm going to wash your injury, and I don't believe you'll want to wear a wet shirt afterwards."

Smike nodded slowly, and began to unbutton it. Oh, the wretched thing, Nicholas thought as he looked at the discarded garment. Too small even for Smike's gaunt frame, filthy, more patch than shirt anymore. Burning was too good for it but would have to suffice.

Nicholas pulled a chair up to sit at the foot of the bed; he brought up his eyes and the wet cloth to Smike's back at the same time, and winced at the sight that met the former.  
He knew, of course, that Squeers—and indeed, the whole damned family—treated Smike abominably; he had been able to hear their shouts and blows from his room late at night, and he had comforted Smike often enough after such nights. He had never, however, seen the results of the schoolmaster's abuses, and to look at them—the half-healed welts, old scars, and even crooked, once-broken ribs, filled him with pain.

He gently lay his fingers on a patch of unmarred skin near the previous day's wound—still red, but starting to scab around the edges. "Does it hurt you?"

"No, sir," Smike said softly, and Nicholas realized he had no way of knowing whether it was true, or if Smike only said it to avoid rousing Nicholas's anger or contempt. Heaven knew he could not complain of his hurts to Mrs. Squeers's motherly bosom.

"You're very brave, Smike," Nicholas said, moving his free hand to clasp the boy's shoulder. "It hurts me just to look at it." Smike looked over his shoulder at Nicholas, concerned.

Nicholas forced a smile and dipped the washcloth in the basin again. It had started to drip on the bedclothes. Closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, he began to clean Smike's latest injury.

Smike sighed under his ministrations, but he did not seem hurt by them, for which Nicholas was profoundly grateful. Smike would not complain, even if it did hurt him, but Nicholas would be sorely grieved to add himself to the ranks of those who had caused Smike such pain. It was a balm to Nicholas's angered soul to think that Smike made no protest because, for once, his pain had been lessened.

Smike began to squirm, and Nicholas moved the handkerchief more gently. "Sir, I--" Smike said, but he quickly shut his mouth before any more words could escape it.

"What is it, Smike?" Nicholas asked, carefully cleaning away bits of grass that had gotten trapped in the still-sticky wound.

"Did…I…are you hurt?"

Nicholas thought with some irritation of the welt on his cheek, which was beginning to itch, but replied, "No."

"You said…" Either Smike had forgotten the thought he meant to propose, or he remembered how the Squeerses had responded to contradiction, because his voice trailed away.

Nicholas sighed. "Oh, Smike, I only meant that it makes me unhappy to think that you were hurt like this. Do you understand?"

From his look of blank incomprehension, Nicholas could see that he did not, which only fueled Nicholas's growing anger. For God's sakes, could that wretched family have but once shown the boy the slightest bit of human kindness? Was it so beyond their reach to offer him a word of comfort, or do a task for themselves, or stay their hands from beating him? Instead of a man, they had raised a dog, that expected nothing but hard treatment and hoped for nothing but the least things necessary for survival. They probably hadn't meant it—he didn't think any of them intelligent enough—but had they set about ruining a boy a-purpose, they could scarcely have done better.

He did his best to hide his thoughts from Smike, but even that poor creature could clearly perceive Nicholas's rage. Smike's eyes had grown very large in his thin face, but he did not seem fearful. He frowned for a moment, as if searching for words, and then said, "I'm sorry. But…but we're gone from there, now!" The smile he offered Nicholas was hesitant, but intended to comfort.

Nicholas suddenly felt remorseful for his thoughts about Smike. Despite his abysmal upbringing, Smike was no beast, and if he thought to offer some happiness to a friend, he was indeed a finer person than any of the Squeerses. He smiled at Smike. "Indeed, we have." He remembered, vaguely, something Mrs. Squeers had once mentioned, and said, "Perhaps, now that we are out in the world, we can search for your family."

He wondered greatly when Smike shuddered in response. Surely the family he had been born into could not be as bad as the one he had just left?

"I'm not…" Smike struggled to speak. "I haven't any…any family."

"You must," Nicholas said. "Everyone comes from somewhere; you weren't born at Dotheboys."

"No," Smike said, shaking his head vigorously. "But…I don't…can't I go with you?"

Wherever Smike had come from, evidently he did not want to go back. And he was a man grown; he could decide what he wanted to do. "Of course. I said you could, didn't I?"

Smike grinned, the dullness vanishing from his face. Nicholas felt his own smile warming in response.

"So, it's settled, then," Nicholas said, feeling that it wasn't really quite settled; after all, when he reached his mother and sister, there was no telling what situation he would find them in. Surely Smike must have people of his own somewhere.

"Settled," repeated Smike, still grinning.

"All right," Nicholas said, rising from the bed and moving towards the sack holding his pitifully few worldly possessions. He pulled out a spare shirt—only one remained in the bag, but what did Nicholas need with spare shirts anyway?—and tossed it on the bed. "Here, put that on, and we'll eat, shall we?"

Smike nodded eagerly and picked up the shirt. Nicholas had used a bit of the money John Browdie had lent him to buy some bread and cheese; they'd arrived at the inn too late to eat when supper was served. He retrieved the food and set it on the table while Smike struggled with the shirt. He sat for a moment at the table, but growing impatient, he went back to the bed to help Smike with the buttons before sitting down again.

Smike lumbered over to the table and stood for a moment, staring at the food. Nicholas felt vaguely uncomfortable, as he had the first evening he had seen Smike lurking about, devouring the food with his eyes as a starving beast would. "Come, sit down," he said to Smike, gesturing towards the other wooden chair.

Smike sat, clearly unused to the feeling of sitting at a table with another man as an equal. He did not speak as Nicholas cut and distributed the bread and cheese; instead he looked at Nicholas from across the table with an expression that could almost be called rapture.

Eager to end the silence, Nicholas said, "I suppose I shall have to have a word or two with my uncle."

"Why?" Smike asked, not taking his eyes from Nicholas, as he picked up his piece of bread.

"It was my uncle who secured the position for me at Dotheboys. He assured me that it was a respectable place." The anger Nicholas had worked so hard to suppress all afternoon came rushing to the forefront of his mind again, because how could his uncle have sent him to such a place? "Either he was mistaken, or…." He let the thought die unsaid, not willing to think about what it would mean if his uncle had gotten him the job knowing full well what kind of man Squeers was.

Another thought, as unpleasant as the last, occurred to him. "Good Lord, Squeers!" Smike looked as if he supposed the man to be hiding behind the shutters, and his thin shoulders twitched nervously. Without thinking, Nicholas extended a hand to cover Smike's bony one, and he stroked it soothingly as he spoke. "I meant that surely Squeers will write to my uncle. After all, I did beat the man most severely, and it was my uncle who recommended me to him. I do hope my uncle doesn't take Squeers's word as truth."

"What…what will he say?" Smike asked.

"I don't suppose the beating I gave him taught him how to treat those in his care. Most likely he'll proclaim me the most wretched scoundrel, the beast!"

"Your uncle won't believe that." Smike's voice was surprisingly sure, and Nicholas stared at him in wonder. "You're the best man that ever was."

Amazed, Nicholas leaned back in his chair. He had always had friends as a boy: friends at school, friends who lived nearby. Gentlemen's sons, who had laughed with him and played schoolboy games with him. When his father had died, none of those friendships had seemed to matter much; it wasn't as if any of them had any real understanding of the Nickleby family's situation. Nicholas didn't need friends, he needed a way to keep his family afloat.

But having seen how awful the world could be, having realized that he had made enemies and that his mother and sister could be utterly without protection, he felt desperately alone, as if he had no tie to anything solid in the world. As strange as it was, he felt almost as if Smike was the only thing anchoring him to any place in the world. Smike was the only thing that kept his anger from consuming him. Smike was devoted to him as no friend in his past had been; indeed, Smike was the only real friend he had.

He sat in silence for a moment, unable to think of what to say. Smike, who seemed to feel he had spoken out of turn, had quickly eaten his bread and cheese as if fearing it might be taken from him at any minute. The look on his face was more concerned than frightened, though, and the naked adoration in his gaze filled Nicholas's heart with warmth.

"Smike," he said, "I could not ask for a better friend." He was struck by a sudden impulse to embrace him, but the table between them was something of an obstacle, and it was difficult to say how Smike would receive such a gesture.

Nicholas thought Smike's face should crack, so wide was the smile that graced it. Nicholas's shirt fit his frame awfully; the sleeves were too short, but excess material hung from his thin body like draperies. Nicholas had persuaded him earlier to wash his face, but he hadn't done a good job of it, and there were smudges of dirt around his hairline and trailing from the underside of his chin down his neck. Nicholas could not imagine a less beautiful sight—even the grotesque Mrs. Squeers had put forth a more presentable image—but the sight of that dirty, silly face smiling so made him inexpressibly happy.

Nicholas finished his meal at a leisurely pace. Smike seemed to have used up his store of words for the evening, and there was nothing Nicholas felt needed to be said, so they sat in amiable silence as Nicholas ate his meager helping of coarse bread and sharp cheese. It was the best meal Nicholas had had in ages.

There was little to clear away, and Smike's hands were deft at helping Nicholas wrap the remnants of the bread and sweep crumbs off the table. Smike had large hands, Nicholas noted, dirty and callused from labor, but with surprisingly thin, delicate-looking fingers.

Their meager tasks completed, they stood for a moment to watch the candle on the table burn down. Nicholas supposed he ought to blow it out, prevent the candle from melting into a warm puddle and save the stub for another night. He couldn't bring himself to, though, and soon he and Smike were standing in the milky blue dark of a moonlit night.

He turned to his companion, his eyes already accustomed to darkness from watching the candle's slow death. "Shall we get some rest? I suppose we have another long day of journeying ahead of us."

Smike nodded slowly and moved to go curl up in a corner; Nicholas stopped him with a touch on one arm.  
"Don't be silly, my dear fellow," he said. "The bed is quite big enough for two." Even as he spoke, he wondered if he would be able to sleep with the sharp corners of Smike's bony frame jabbing at him in the night. But after all, he had no more right to the bed than Smike did, and surely Smike deserved any kindness Nicholas could give him.

They got into bed fully clothed. Smike had no nightshirt in which to change, and Nicholas felt unaccountably strange about undressing in front of his companion. Smike left plenty of room on the bed (though his feet stuck out rather comically on the other end of it), and soon enough Nicholas was able to find himself a comfortable position and fall into an easy slumber.

He knew not how long he had slept when he became aware of something poking him rather urgently in the leg. He sighed, thinking of pointed elbows and hard knees, and rolled over.

The protuberance poking his leg was most assuredly not Smike's knee. And it was apparently causing the poor fellow some discomfort, as even Nicholas's sleep-blurred eyes could see the way he bit his lip as if willing himself not to cry out. Some unfamiliar, inexpressible sensation ran through Nicholas's mind.

"Smike," he said. And here he stopped, because what could he say? He could not ask Smike if he were all right, as he clearly was not. He didn't know what to say that wouldn't embarrass him.

Smike whimpered. "Oh, sir…I didn't mean to…" It was clear he was ready to work himself into a frenzy of remorse. Nicholas found himself extending a hand from under the sheets, patting Smike's shoulder reassuringly.

"It's all right," Nicholas said. "Do you want me to look away?"

The look he received in response was one of utter humiliation, and he wondered how the Squeerses dealt with such matters. They were just the sort of nasty, small-minded people who would mock such difficulties in a boy, or forbid him from helping himself.

"I don't…sir…"

"Shh, shh," Nicholas said. Well, he thought, this was certainly a fine state of affairs. Surely neither of them would be able to go to sleep again with Smike in this condition. He thought for a moment, considering the matter carefully, and then asked, "Do you…would you like me to help?"

Smike made an anxious noise—it could have been a 'yes' or a 'no,' but wasn't clear enough to be understood. He looked imploringly at Nicholas for the briefest of moments, then looked away, mumbling, "I didn't mean…"

A rush of sympathy overwhelmed Nicholas. Friends give each other aid, he thought to himself. There would be nothing untoward in his helping his friend out of such an uncomfortable position.

He cautiously felt his way down Smike's front to where his pants fastened. The rope tying the pants together had clearly seen much, and it had shrunk and hardened into a knot of Gordian proportions. Nicholas quickly dismissed the notion of untying it and pulled the pants down a bit. Smike was so thin they slid over his hips without difficulty, revealing the distressed-looking organ that had prodded Nicholas from sleep.

Smike gasped as Nicholas's hands touched his skin, and Nicholas made soothing noises. After a moment, he asked, "Is it all right if I…touch it? "

Smike nodded almost desperately, as if he had lost all faculties of speech and had to communicate much with only a gesture. His member seemed strained with the effort of maintaining its stiff position, and Nicholas felt his own rouse itself and push at the inside of his trousers. Surely it was only sympathy, Nicholas told himself.

He slowly moved a hand from where it lay on Smike's bony hip and curled it gently around the erect organ in front of him. Smike quivered at the touch like a frightened animal. Nicholas paused, having never extended this kindness to anyone but himself, and then squeezed gently, running his loose fist up and down.

Smike whimpered, and Nicholas loosened his hand still further, still touching Smike's member but barely. "Do you want me to stop?"

Without a word, Smike reached a hand down and grabbed Nicholas's, practically forcing it back into its previous position. Smike's hands were rough; Nicholas could feel blisters scratching at his skin. This odd sensation and the sudden pressure made him close his hands again around Smike's member, harder than before. And now his own body was responding in earnest.

For a moment, Nicholas imagined that the organ he stroked was his own, hoping that it would ease the pressure within his trousers. Smike was not quiet in his tortured pleasure, though, so Nicholas gave that notion up and resolved to ease Smike's suffering before turning to his own.

They lay there for what seemed like an eternity, Nicholas perfectly still save for his hand, Smike squirming and clutching at the sheets. With one final rub to the tip of the erection with Nicholas's thumb, Smike made a brief noise of shock and pleasure, and Nicholas found his hand slippery and wet.

"All right then, Smike?" Nicholas asked. His own voice seemed strange to his ears, as if it belonged to someone else. He licked his lips and tried again. "Are you—"

He could not finish the sentence because Smike had placed his mouth over Nicholas's in a kiss that seemed considerably more than friendly. "Thank you," Smike murmured. "I…."

Nicholas was about to explain that he had merely been helping Smike out of friendship, and no thanks were necessary, and he thought a suggestion of wiping down the sheets would not be out of order. Before he could say any of this, however, Smike had noticed Nicholas's own predicament, and the expression on his face was a familiar one of horrified dismay.

"It's all right, Smike," he tried to say, but Smike had already bent over, shifted himself down towards the foot of the bed, moved his mouth over Nicholas's member. Suddenly in a state of warm and blinding pleasure, Nicholas found himself rather disinclined to say anything at all.

His pleasure reached fruition in a splendid moment of perfect tension of Smike's mouth, and he quickly removed himself, indeed pulling himself from the bed lest he soil the sheets still further. Having cleaned himself a bit from the water basin, he looked over towards the bed. Smike was staring at him, his face utterly expressionless.

Perhaps, he thought, he should not have let Smike assist him. But the fellow had seemed so eager, and Nicholas thought he would not have been able to refuse. Yet the problem remained; how was he to continue? For surely the unusual circumstances that had befallen them would make their continued relationship somewhat awkward.

Don't be absurd, he told himself. After all, they were friends—indeed, Nicholas thought wryly, he could hardly think of a friend who had done so much for him. Smike had hardly set out to embarrass both himself and Nicholas, after all, and Nicholas had only sought to ease Smike's distress.. If he had gotten more pleasure out of the asssistance than he had expected…well, surely it was nothing more than schoolboys got from helping each other.

At any rate, Smike was clearly looking to Nicholas to see how the incident had affected him, and Nicholas would be damned if he let it make him harder with Smike simply to overcome his own strange feelings about the matter.

"Well," he said, affecting a warm but business-like tone, "do you think you can sleep now?"

Smike nodded cautiously, his face unsure. Nicholas found himself unable to contain his smile, and he got back into bed, kissing Smike on the forehead as he would his sister. "Dear Smike," he said, "I am glad you are with me."

Smike's smile was worth a thousand blows from Squeers's hand. Nicholas thought he could quite cheerfully wander the world over if only that smile could last. And if he could not locate Smike's people—well, surely Kate and his mother could not object if Smike were to stay with them. They were, after all, rapidly becoming the best of friends.

He was quite content as Smike curled up against his side, making the bed seem warmer than it had before.


End file.
